


I: Twisted

by terma_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-01-01
Updated: 2000-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:47:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26536042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terma_archivist/pseuds/terma_archivist
Summary: A brutalized Mulder tries to conceal his dirty laundry, but a case that strikes an unwelcome chord in him makes the job difficult. It's up to Scully to wheedle the truth out of him—but can she deal with it? Can he ever go back to work without having a mental breakdown?
Relationships: Alex Krycek/Fox Mulder, Fox Mulder & Dana Scully
Collections: TER/MA





	1. I: Twisted

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alicettlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [TER/MA](https://fanlore.org/wiki/TER/MA) and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2019. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [the TER/MA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/terma/profile).  
> I'll be up front. There is no romance here, except in little flashbacks, and that part is Mulder/Krycek. No, Krycek is not the rapist. I'd never do that to my precious ratbaby. MSR is nonexistent—shippers, flee now or forever hold your peace. Yes, there is tons of angst. If you want a happy, stable Mulder, you're not going to get him. This Mulder is traumatized, and he suffers from several mental illnesses as a result of his rape and the events of his childhood. In typical Mulder style, he's not going to want to be a good boy and go get healed. This Scully is a nice, relatively sane Scully, and she's not an evil bitch from hell. There's going to be a lot of bonding in here—platonic bonding, of course. If you hate Scully, this is not going to please you. If you think relationships between two men are horrible and evil, this is going to disgust you. If you think that I'm condeming homosexuality because I've written a story about one man raping another, don't read this, even though I'm not—I'm not straight, after all. I can't tell you to enjoy this, because if you did you'd be one sick fuck.. but maybe you'll identify with it, or learn something about how nasty criminals are. Mhmm. If I have any writing skill whatsoever, that is.. Note: Titles taken from "Barrel of a Gun" by Depeche Mode. I won't include the entire set of lyrics until the very end of the series, because this isn't songfic.

  
**Barrel of a Gun I**

Twisted  
by Meri Lomelindi 

  
**8:30 AM, February 18th, 1995  
Hoover Building, X-Files Office**

There was a neat square of open space on the impossibly cluttered desk, scrubbed clean with the paper towel that lay, wadded up, just beside it. 

Scully allowed herself a languid smirk. When Mulder had returned to work after his ordeal in Alaska, his first act had been to buy her a chair. Still no desk, but then, he'd evidently cleared her a spot on his own last night. These little betrayals of his casual thoughtlessness never ceased to amuse her, even though later she'd end up bothering him about the desk again—it had become something of a running joke. 

She was sitting in her chair—a sort of computer chair, plush and ebony, with oddly shaped armrests and wheels that squeaked obnoxiously when she shifted positions. The papers were in her lap; she couldn't bring herself to disturb the pristine quality that had overtaken her little corner of desk. It wasn't much of a surprise when the fashionably late Mulder shut the door with a slight click, just as she'd begun her reluctant review of the documents before her. 

What did surprise her was the lack of a greeting. Mulder might not have been the type to give her a hello every time they met, but he always had _something_ to say, some little quip or an excited preface to the case he was about to thrust upon her. There was only silence here, minus the shuffling of shoes against carpet as he made his way to the back of the desk and took a seat. 

She didn't fail to notice the infinitesimal wince that flashed across his features, though he undoubtedly meant to hide it with downturned eyes and a smile that didn't quite reach them. His mouth was split, an angry red streak dividing the pouty lower lip into two sections, and the high panes of his forehead bore a superficial slash that was already beginning to scab. When he did glance up at his partner, his bloodshot gaze and the dark, baggy circles that rimmed it were revealed to her. 

Unable to suppress a sigh, she wondered what had befallen him now. There wasn't time for a case, she thought, but then Mulder always had a knack for getting himself in trouble. He'd probably hit his head on a drawer, tried to call her when she'd been out with her mother, and then worried about it for the rest of the night. She had to ask, though. "Mulder, what in the world happened to you?" 

Again, he cringed as he wriggled in his seat, but it was gone so quickly that she almost thought she'd imagined it. He paused before he spoke, and then his voice was hoarse, "I went running." Fiddling with his new alien-head paperweight, he refused to meet her eyes. Such peculiar behavior alerted her investigative instincts and they went into overdrive, cataloguing his every movement. 

"And?" she prompted with an arched brow. 

Guiltily, he admitted, "I fell." Then, not willing to stay on the subject, he inquired, "Anything new?" 

It was her game now, and she was permitted another discreet smile as she answered, in a tone laden with mystery and intrigue, "Oh, yes. Something you've never seen before in your lifelong study of the paranormal, Mulder." 

Surprisingly, he didn't perk up—the spark had dulled for the day, apparently. But he did manage to appear interested enough that she could deliver her response with dramatic flair. "Expense reports," and she was grinning wickedly as she handed the documents over to him. As he reluctantly accepted the sheaf of paper, she noticed that his hands were bruised, ugly blue splotches tracing the length of his fingers, and the cuffs of his shirt were rolled down as far as possible—odd, such extensive injuries on a running escapade. Who knew what Mulder could get into in his spare time, though? He might've been lying, and she wasn't going to be the one to nag him about it, not after having played mother and nurse to his pitiful, frostbitten victim less than a week ago. 

They worked on the expense reports for what seemed like ages, though when she checked the clock, it'd only been two hours or so. To make matters worse, they were far from complete; Mulder kept fleeing to the bathroom every twenty minutes. Sure, avoiding reports like this was his specialty, but in the past he'd thought up more plausible, i.e. less blatant, excuses. Both agents were relieved when the phone rang at 10:30—at first. When it turned out to be Skinner's secretary informing them that they were, in no uncertain terms, to speedily announce their presence in his office, the relief was transformed into apprehension. 

"He can't expect the reports yet," Mulder told Scully as they ambled down the hall, ignoring the curious stares that followed them. People were always watching them from a distance, gathering more fuel for their Mr. and Mrs. Spooky theories. 

"No," she agreed, "it must be a case, though I don't know why he saw the need to call us to his office to present it." 

The Assistant Director was an imposing fellow in spite of his egglike head and the way that light seemed to gleam off of it—or perhaps because of it. He was comfortable behind his desk, hands clasped, all hard edges and sharp angles; all cool composure and calm resignation to the task at hand, whatever it was. Walter Skinner rarely smiled. Still, he seemed to bear some sort of grudging respect for the agents who investigated the X-Files. 

As expected, he was the epitome of a businesslike FBI Agent, a fact reflected in his gruff monotone—it almost rivaled Mulder's when he was in his prime. Wordlessly he gestured to the two chairs facing his desk and waited for them to take their seats. "Agents, I have a request for you." At their nods and expressions of unfeigned interest, he continued, "I realize that this is not your current venue, but Agent Mulder has extensive knowledge in this field, and his training might save several lives." She glanced at Mulder and was mildly shocked to note that his skin was flushed beneath the mask of civility, his eyes a bit too wide. Venue, her foot—they wanted him to profile someone, obviously. 

Skinner hadn't deigned to comment on Mulder's physical state, but presently he narrowed his eyes and raked them over the form of his lanky inferior. "Are you well, Agent Mulder?" 

"Fine, sir," Mulder murmured, his smile weak. "Just had a bit of an accident the other day." 

That answer seemed to be acceptable, from Skinner's bemused grunt. "As you've probably figured out, the VCU is stumped on another case and they have discreetly requested your assistance." Blinking somewhat wearily, the first sign of weakness in his rigid exterior, he handed the file over to the two Agents. Scully thought, idly, that Assistant Directors probably got even less sleep than Mulder did on his good days. She hadn't seen Skinner take a day off, much less a vacation, since her first encounter with him. 

A cursory overview of the case left Mulder with studiously knitted eyebrows and a hand that clenched and unclenched at random intervals, and it made her wonder—if his facade could show cracks this easily, what must hers look like now? She knew that she had yet to compartmentalize her emotions after returning from what Mulder termed her "abduction," and what if others could read her easily enough to see what raged beneath the surface of her icy demeanor? It couldn't be, could it.. ? 

That disturbing thought fled from her mind as soon as he passed the folder to her. Peering inside with no small amount of trepidation, she was rewarded by a full-length view of a grisly crime scene, complete with a mutilated body and pools of blood. A woman, though it would have been difficult to tell if not for the length of her mahogany curls, now stained with red, and she'd been stripped of her clothing and then systematically decorated. Another picture, this one from a yearbook. She'd been drop dead gorgeous. The initial report surmised that she'd been raped and tortured over a period of three days—her family had reported her missing, not that it had done any good—and then killed by a shot to the head, execution style. There was no evidence of the unsub—no fluids, hair samples, or anything that might lead to his apprehension. Forensics reported that penetration had been accomplished with a foreign object, perhaps a knife or some type of stick. 

Melissa Waters, Scully read, a chill shooting down her spine. 20 years of age, in her third year of college at the University of South Florida. Ruffling through the rest of the pages as her throat grew dry, parched, and her stomach did tiny somersaults, she found a catalogue of similar photos. All fairly young women, all of the same general age group, all with the same hair color, but with differing backgrounds. One girl had been a waitress. It was obviously the work of a serial killer, and not the most creative one—God only knew how many people had followed this M.O. before—but certainly one of the most bloody. Sometimes a serial killer would mutilate after the victim's demise, but in this case there was no such luck. Mulder had barely skimmed the reports before giving the entire folder to her, and she thought he should—no, it was his eidetic memory at work. He knew exactly what had happened to those women. 

The unsub's profile, as hypothesized by the Tampa PD and the VCU, was included among the papers, but Skinner interrupted her before she could study it. "By all accounts, given the specificity of the profile, the unsub should have been identified, if not brought into custody. But no one in the entire county matches the profile, and no one even remotely matching the unsub's supposed description has been seen near the crime scenes. It must be assumed that the profile is somehow inaccurate." Skinner frowned, and his mouth was drawn into a tight little line of disapproval. It might have been for the profilers, the serial killer himself, or even them; Scully couldn't be sure. But she wasn't confused about that—it was the whole notion that made no sense. 

"Sir," Scully piped up, "May I ask why we have been called in so late in the investigation? There have been seven murders, if the information here is correct, and the profile was written almost a month ago. Violent Crimes must have realized that it was wrong soon after that—why wait this long to approach Agent Mulder?" 

Frown deepening, Skinner bowed his head slightly and considered the now barren surface of his desk. Finally he said, with a sigh, "Senator Gardner's daughter has been kindapped in a manner that would suggest the unsub as the most conceivable culprit. According to the killer's M.O., there are only 72 hours left in which to locate her while she is still alive." If it weren't for propriety, he'd probably have rolled his eyes in disgust. As it was, Scully felt resentment welling up inside of her at the thought of such "special" attention. One corpse was the same as another; each deserved equal justice and protection under the law, especially since they weren't there to see it. Fairness was so essential. 

Mulder was uncharacterically silent; he'd gotten a case of the shakes, she thought, but then it was gone, just like the wincing, and she toyed with the notion that she was projecting her emotions about the case onto him. He'd been dealing with these sort of murders for years, after all. He looked up, evidently realizing that both Scully and Skinner were staring at him, awaiting a response. It seemed like he was off in space for a moment, and then he murmured, "I'll do the profile if Agent Scully assists me—and I will need to view the crime scenes and the general area firsthand." 

Surprisingly, the ghost of a smile appeared on the Assistant Director's tanned face, grim as it was. "That was a given, Agent Mulder," he said. "You and Agent Scully are booked on the noon flight to the Tampa International Airport, where you will be greeted by the head detective. Local officers have been instructed to comply with your wishes, as long as they are within reason." He produced the tickets from a folder that Scully hadn't noticed and offered them to her. She had no choice but to take them, uneasily. There was a feeling of wrongness in the pit of her stomach, but then, Scully only trusted empirical evidence, not the workings of her persnickety digestive system. 

Blandly, she said, "Reason seems to be a relative term with Agent Mulder, sir." 

There was nothing in the way of a reply, just another bemused half-smile, and soon they were being ushered out of the building and onto a plane, the case file tucked carefully in Scully's briefcase. Mulder made a beeline for the bathroom before the seat belt sign was even close to being turned off, complaining of airsickness. He certainly looked ill; green, almost, so Scully resigned herself to the task of becoming familiar with the unsub in glorious profiler detail. Joy to the world. 

* * *

**12:20 PM, February 18th, 1995  
Airplane en route to Tampa**

Bile was bubbling up in his throat, gorge ascending with rapid certainty as he lunged sporadically from side to side, bruised torso connecting with the airplane seats in brief jolts of agony that the Maximum Strength Tylenol just couldn't control. He pawed his way through the startled flight attendants, but it was no wonder that they let him pass; he knew his face must have looked positively grey, like the aliens he was so fond of pursuing. Despite his efforts, he barely reached the lavatory in time. 

_dirty_

Fuck, thought Mulder as he spewed vomit into the freshly cleaned toilet in the claustrophobic little room that shook with the force of the air pressure, I shouldn't have eaten breakfast. 

But it wasn't the breakfast that caused his body to heave violently and retrieve the contents of his stomach, nor was it the air turbulence. It was the entirely unwelcome set of thoughts that kept dancing through his mind like a slide show or a broken record that someone had forgotten to take off of the spindle. 

_hurtpain no, stop please—no don't, give you money, no_

The queasiness had been growing steadily—all morning, really, ever since the meeting with Skinner, and then suddenly it vanished unbelievably and left him kneeling on the cold floor, panting, his energy spent, face splattered, with the familiar taste of vomit coating the inside of his mouth. He was staring into the toilet, considering with dread the idea that he'd have to actually use it for its intended purpose sometime soon, and then thinking that if he kept vomiting up everything he consumed, it wouldn't be a problem. 

Mulder sat there for about five minutes, listening to the buzz of the engines in the background and the murmurs in his mind. 

_shh, be quiet you'll like it—it's so painless if you shut up and I won't have to hurt you—you want it, you know you do_

There was someone banging on the door—not frantically, but enough to let him know that other people had needs. It prompted him to action. Systemically, thoughtlessly, he yanked paper towel after paper towel out of the dispenser. The room had that peculiar rotten smell; he was used to it, but he doubted that the other passengers would appreciate the decor. Then again, he could barely smell anything the way his nose was stuffed up, and soon he was splashing water over his face liberally, surveying the damage. Too pale - dark circles, bloodshot eyes. Bruises, cuts. He looked like hell, and it was being handed to him in a handbasket. 

_so loose, you've been selling out—whore—should have saved yourself for me—gotta punish you now_

Scully was undoubtedly wondering if he was okay, and she might try to examine him if he kept this up. The people waiting in line for the lavatory shot him odd, covert looks; his shirt was wet where he'd had to scrub it clean. Scully's gaze was similar as he took his seat beside her, stiffly, hoping his discomfort didn't show on his face. He thought she'd seen it at the office that morning—at the very least, she hadn't bought his running story. That concern was flashing in her eyes, veiled, the kind that told him he should be several dozen miles away before she tried to broach the subject. She didn't say anything, just tilted her head, looking at him disconcertingly, and shoved the folder into his arms. Her eyes were lighter than he'd remembered, more unfathomable against the backdrop of her fiery hair, like frost in the summer. Maybe the case disturbed her as well. 

_better hope you can handle what i got boy_

Glancing down at the crime scene photos, he swallowed. Blood was everywhere. It dripped, but not in the photos; it dripped onto his bathroom floor. Clothes ruined, soaked in it. His best—his only—leather jacket. Red and black now, a set of checkers. Jeans torn and battered and useless. 

_what's your name—what do i call you—pretty boy_

Blood coursed down his cheeks and mingled with tears. 

_foxy little thing—you don't like that? foxy it is_

The girl in the yearbook photo was smiling, ear to ear, dark tresses flowing around her face like a raven crown. Bold nose, full lips. Samantha, or a close facsimile thereof. 

_do you know what i want, foxy—you got to do it_

No—he looked again. A name. Melissa. 

_it'll be good for you too, baby_

Melissa was Scully's sister. Fuck. 

_suck me off_

It was hours before he mustered the strength of will to discuss the case, and by then they were already disembarking. 

* * *

**7:21 PM, February 18th, 1995  
Hillsborough River State Park**

Scully's primitive streak wanted to curse like a sailor. 

Less than an hour after their arrival came the call—there was another victim. An old one, this time; Mulder had told her on the trip to the newest crime scene, in a hushed whisper, that he thought this one had been the first kill ever. 

It was certainly old enough, judging from the decay that festered on the half-buried corpse. The nails had fallen off, and very little remained of the black hair. Body tissues were gelling as she watched, though it wasn't apparent to the naked eye. The face was still recognizable. Elfin. Delicate, pretty. 

"Who is it?" she breathed. 

They were standing as close as possible to the corpse, which was cordoned off along with the rest of the crime scene. The portly Tampa PD officer who was hovering over them wouldn't allow her to get anywhere near the body, despite her identification and tone of voice. Bastard. The sun had set long ago, and even with the aid of a flashlight, she couldn't get close enough to gather any information about the deceased. 

"There was no identification on the body," offered the man. He sounded grainy, tired, and when she turned to look at him the sweat was rolling off of his pudgy cheeks in waves. It was so disgusting that she had to shift her eyes away from him. He could help her, though, if he'd stop being such a rule-bound prick. With a mighty effort, Scully called her powers of persuasion into existence. She coated her words, sugary sweet. "Officer, what is your name?" Odd that he hadn't introduced himself in the beginning, but then it had been a hectic drive. 

He blinked, confused, and his eyes narrowed a bit. "Gordon Wells, Miss Scully," he said, but he sounded uncertain. 

"Agent Scully," she corrected automatically and then wished she hadn't. More gently, she asked, "Officer Wells, do you think you could find me a bottle of water—at the gift shop, maybe, or the camping grounds? I'm very," she sighed and closed her eyes briefly for emphasis, "thirsty. I'm just not used to this much heat in the middle of winter.." 

Gordon Wells' beady eyes lit up—he was the old fashioned type, she thought. Wouldn't deny a lady's request. "Of course, ma'am," he burbled, and she resisted the urge to correct him as he went into a tirade on the temperatures in Florida and the dangers of heat exhaustion. Finally he waddled off into the distance and out of the crime scene while Mulder and Scully averted their eyes. He smelled of smoke and mayonnaise, she thought, her nose wrinkling up involuntarily. Gordo meant fat in Spanish. 

"Clever," was Mulder's comment as she rolled up her sleeves and slipped the surgical gloves on, eliciting a vicious glare from the coroner who stood to the side. He was only waiting out of deference to the senator's missing daughter and the X-Files Agents' status on the case, and he looked like he'd much rather be taking over the investigation himself. Mulder sounded hoarse again. 

She murmured, low enough not to attract the attention of the forensic team that waited on the sidelines, "Are you sure you're not coming down with something? If you'd let me take your—" 

He interrupted her. "No, Scully, I'm fine. Just tell me what you see, please. This is the important one." She wanted to memorize the look on his face but the pallid, waxen cast of his complexion was too ominous to contemplate without going against his wishes, so she began to poke and prod the corpse instead. 

"You want clinical jargon?" she asked, peering into the eye sockets to find the eyes sunken in and disintegrating, filmy white. There was a hole in her head. 

"No. Just make it fast." 

She shrugged. "Okay. Subject is young, under 30, maybe. I would estimate time of death—oh—a little over three weeks ago, from the state of the nails and tissues. Can't be sure. White female. No clothing, no identification. What appears to be random designs and X's carved on the skin. Injuries and tearing of the, ah," she had to pause as her throat caught, "genital area which are indicative of sexual assault. Gunshot wound to the head presumably the cause of death." She peered at the head cautiously, drawing the strands of leaf-infested hair away. "Shot from a distance. Subject was probably dragged here after death. Wasn't discovered until now because this is a relatively unpopular trail and the body was dumped several dozen feet away from it, in the underbrush—Mulder? Where are you going?" 

He was stalking away on unsteady feet, barely avoiding the evidence canisters and bushes, ignoring the concerned or perhaps annoyed onlookers. She doubted they'd ever seen an FBI Agent in such a condition. "Getting Tylenol," he called over his shoulder, "from the car. Be right back." Gravelly voice, and she thought he might have been coughing, but he was vanishing into the darkness of the trail and she only caught one more glimpse of him as he signed out of the crime scene. 

If he had a headache, thought Scully, exasperated, the least he could do was tell me. I've got better medication. 

* * *

**7:50 PM, February 18th, 1995  
Hillsborough River State Parking Lot**

He thought he was going to keel over and die before he got to the parking lot, and he wasn't even sick to his stomach this time. It was—oh, god, the stench. He could see how she'd been violated, could hear the killer's voice in his mind telling her that she'd enjoy it. The eyes were sunken, but he could see them staring out at him, lifeless, accusing. 

_sweet jesus, i knew you were good—now it's time_

The car was a welcome sight, dark blue, outlined in the dim lamplight. A beacon. 

_don't struggle, make it easy—i've got—_

The keys were whipped out of Mulder's pocket and he fumbled with the door, finally forcing it open and collapsing bonelessly into the driver's seat with a moan as agony lanced through his ass. 

_if that's the way you want it foxy—i can do you bare_

The Tylenol was in his briefcase, but as he reached for it there was a pervasive darkness swirling about him, teasing the edges of his vision. Bleakness beckoned to him; nothingness called with its enticingly open arms. He succumbed to its embrace. 

It didn't even register that the car had started. 

* * *

**8:05 PM, February 18th, 1995  
Hillsborough River State Park**

She'd just completed her cursory examination of the body and disposed of the dirt-caked medical gloves when Officer Wells arrived, bearing a bottle of Zephyrhills Spring Water. His paunch jiggled with each movement and his jowls wiggled in a groteque parody of speech—she couldn't quite make out what he was saying, but she noticed that he was running. The blue uniform was soaked with sweat and something that was reminiscent of grease, she saw as he came closer. Something in his expression made her shiver. 

"Miss Scully!" he shouted unnecessarily, skidding to a rather awkward halt. The bottle was shoved at her without ceremony. "Have you seen Agent Mulder?" Damn it, why was it always Agent Mulder and Miss Scully, or Agent Mulder and ma'am? And what about Agent Mulder and his lovely lady friend.. 

Scully ran her eyes along the absence of a horizon, scanning the silhouettes of the pine trees against the moon. Stars in the sky and a lazily running river; it seemed too absurdly peaceful a spot to contain a brutalized corpse. Nature was cruel. "He went to get some aspirin," she replied, without alacrity. Come to think of it, Mulder had been gone for quite a while. 

"He's gone," Wells told her, panic tinging his voice as it shot up in pitch, "and so is the car." 

Dead calm, for a moment, and then Scully was smoothing her damp hair back and rearranging her suit, trenchcoat long discarded in order to avoid roasting in the humidity. Ditching was one of Mulder's less than favorable character traits. "Did he say anything to anyone—anything at all?" 

Gordon Wells blanched; he'd probably figured that she would know Mulder's whereabouts. "Not that I know of, ma'am." 

"Agent Scully," she informed him, ice and sharpness, "or Doctor Scully, whichever you prefer. You and I are going up to the entrance to question the warden." She snatched her purse from the wary guard at the edge of the evidence tape and began punching in the speed-dial on her cell phone. If Mulder's had run out of batteries again, there was going to be hell to pay. 

"Agent Scully," the nervous officer blubbered dutifully, "I noticed that Agent Mulder looked real sick—do you think he—maybe he's delirious or something.." 

"I certainly hope not," replied Scully, cool as a cucumber. "It would be your county's car that Agent Mulder wrecked." 

Agent Mulder was not answering his cell phone. 

* * *

_Tell me what you think of it so far..._

Date: January 2000   
Fandom: X-Files   
Contact: [email removed], feedback givers adored.   
Spoilers: anything up to End Game   
Rating: NC-17 for violence, naughty language, rape   
Class: Story/Angst   
Keywords: Mulder angst, rape, slash, Mulder/Scully friendship. Brief Mulder/Krycek.   
Summary: A brutalized Mulder tries to conceal his dirty laundry, but a case that strikes an unwelcome chord in him makes the job difficult. It's up to Scully to wheedle the truth out of him—but can she deal with it? Can he ever go back to work without having a mental breakdown?   
Warnings: I'll be up front. There is no romance here, except in little flashbacks, and that part is Mulder/Krycek. No, Krycek is not the rapist. I'd never do that to my precious ratbaby. MSR is nonexistent—shippers, flee now or forever hold your peace. Yes, there is tons of angst. If you want a happy, stable Mulder, you're not going to get him. This Mulder is traumatized, and he suffers from several mental illnesses as a result of his rape and the events of his childhood. In typical Mulder style, he's not going to want to be a good boy and go get healed. This Scully is a nice, relatively sane Scully, and she's not an evil bitch from hell. There's going to be a lot of bonding in here—platonic bonding, of course. If you hate Scully, this is not going to please you. If you think relationships between two men are horrible and evil, this is going to disgust you. If you think that I'm condeming homosexuality because I've written a story about one man raping another, don't read this, even though I'm not—I'm not straight, after all. I can't tell you to enjoy this, because if you did you'd be one sick fuck.. but maybe you'll identify with it, or learn something about how nasty criminals are. Mhmm. If I have any writing skill whatsoever, that is..   
Disclaimer: Duh—I don't own the X-Files, 1013 and Chris Carter and Fox and the Consortium do, obviously. They could prosecute me if they gave a damn, but I haven't anything of value for them to acquire. Cept my dog. And I love my dog, so please be nice.   
NO X-FILES CHARACTERS WERE KILLED IN THE WRITING OF THIS FANFIC. Send appropriate replies of gratitude.   
Note: Titles taken from "Barrel of a Gun" by Depeche Mode. I won't include the entire set of lyrics until the very end of the series, because this isn't songfic.   
---


	2. II: Numb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brutalized Mulder tries to conceal his dirty laundry, but a case that strikes an unwelcome chord in him makes the job difficult. It's up to Scully to wheedle the truth out of himbut can she deal with it? Can he ever go back to work without having a mental breakdown?

  
**Barrel of a Gun II**

Numb  
by Meri Lomelindi 

  
**4:32 AM, February 19th, 1995  
Outside 7-11**

"Any word?" 

Officer Wells was jogging back to the bench with an overflowing bag and a mouth stuffed chock full of potato chips, his dark, sweaty hair plastered to his forehead. He fell onto the seat beside her, dropping a box of wheat crackers into her lap and a Coke Slurpee into her less than grateful hands. After he had finished chewing, he said, "Nope—but I 'spect he'd call you if he was gonna call anyone, ma'a, err, Agent Scully." He munched noisily as he dug into the bag, and the grease was palpable in his voice. She resisted the urge to give him a lecture on a healthy diet and its relation to law enforcement, instead opening the box and nibbling on a cracker. It was stale— not that she had expected anything else. 

"I asked for coffee, Officer—didn't they have any?" She tried to keep her tone light, but she had the feeling that her irritation had seeped through anyway. 

Wells' mouth was occupied again, so he shook his head and endeavored to empty it. "Machine was broken," he explained. "This was all they had with caffeine." There was a pause while he gulped down a large portion of his orange soda—disgusting stuff, she thought—and then he cleared his throat apprehensively. "You're SURE you don't wanna go back to your hotel, Agent Scully? It's real late, and it's not safe for a woman, sitting out in the open at night." 

Wanting to growl at him, she took a deep breath and a careful sip of her Slurpee. It wasn't too bad, actually. She thought that she sounded remarkably calm when she spoke, considering the amount of provocation she'd endured. "Officer Wells, I am not going to sleep until Agent Mulder is found, and I'm sure he would do the same for me. We can sit in the squad car if you'd feel more safe, or you are welcome to take your leave. I'm sure I could wait at the station." 

She didn't mention that Skinner had left the accommodations to Mulder who, true to form, had booked them adjoining rooms in the hotel of terror, the Oceanside Inn. It was nowhere near the ocean— Tampa faced the Gulf of Mexico—and it was miles from the Gulf as well. She had gone to drop off her luggage earlier and then fled when she found a roach crawling on the defunct television set. There was no way she was going to return there, and even if it had been clean, she couldn't fall asleep when Mulder had vanished like this. She wasn't terribly worried—he had probably just gone off on some obscure lead—but the way he'd looked right before pulling his disappearing act, so pale and exhausted, was troubling. Thinking about it was an exercise in futility, though, until he returned. 

Horrified, judging by his expression of dismay, Wells shook his head vigorously. "Oh, no, Agent Scully. I'll stay up as long as you do. And besides," he added, with a hint of pride, "folks are less likely to bother you if you're with a man in uniform." 

Scully fumed silently, toying with the idea of telling him off before she remembered her personal therapy method for situations like these. She had developed it while in the Academy, when a cocky male candidate had jeered at her. Although she doubted that any real psychologist would find it healthy, it always took the edge off of her anger and made her feel in control. Control was very, very important to Scully. 

A cracker rested in her hand, untouched, and she began to systematically crush it into infinitesimal little crumbs. Imagining Officer Wells' head in place of the cracker, she noted with glee that a some of the powdery remains had splattered on his uniform, mingling with grease stains. When he tried to brush them off, they stuck to the fabric. "Sorry," she offered innocently, "they aren't very sturdy crackers." 

He shrugged, frowning, and settled back against the bench with his potato chips in hand. Scully thought it odd that he hadn't insisted on returning to the squad car even though it was directly beside the bench, but then realized that it was probably ten degrees warmer in that sort of cramped space. Air conditioning most likely had to be rationed the way heat was in D.C. when it snowed. 

Sighing wearily, she flipped on her cell phone, dialed Mulder, and wasn't too disappointed when she received no answer. Despite his professed resolve to stay awake, Officer Wells had closed his eyes and was even beginning to snore. She found herself battling the temptation to nod off and, to that effect, downed half of her melted Slurpee; it wouldn't do to fall asleep at a gas station. 

She was dozing anyway, only half alert, when the insisting ringing of her cell phone startled her back into wakefulness. 

* * *

**5:10 AM (ET), February 19th, 1995  
Location Unknown**

_cold_

Headlights blazed through the fog of his mind, blinding him momentarily, and he shivered. Somewhere, someone was honking their horn with an insistence that made his lateness for work clear. It was dark except for the little spots of white light and a green console that spread out in front of him. For a moment, he imagined that he was on an alien spaceship. 

But it was just a car, and Mulder, in the driver's seat, was going ten miles below the speed limit on what appeared to be a highway—in morning traffic, no less. Self-preservation kicked in, finally, so he put his foot on the gas and righted the wheels before he swerved off of the road. A glance at the car's radio told him that it was five in the morning. 

Five in the morning when it had been eight in the evening, and he had no idea where the hell he was or how he'd gotten there. He flicked his eyes down for another second and noted that there was nothing new in the car, nothing he didn't recognize; still the same clothes, thankfully, and the cell phone was peeking out from the pocket of his discarded trenchcoat on the passenger's seat. The air conditioning was blasting out of the fans, making his teeth chatter, but his body felt curiously bereft of pain; he hadn't even remembered the bandages on his wrists until he noticed the whiteness of them against the steering wheel. His sleeves had slid down with the angle of his arms, he supposed. Voices still mumbled in his head, but they warbled and wavered and sometimes he couldn't even make them out—not that he minded. 

_scully_

The cell phone was there for the taking and he grabbed it, without much thought, and speed-dialed Scully. It took a few rings for her to answer, and when she did she sounded sleepy. 

"Scully." 

He felt like he'd just woken up as well, and he couldn't seem to think of anything to say. 

_scully, helpmehelpmehelpme don't let him do this_

"Hello?" She sounded annoyed now, but then her voice softened. "Mulder? Is that you?" 

"Sc-cully," he mumbled, "help me." His voice cracked as if he hadn't used it in years, and the curious fog was still there, hindering his actions. Bewilderment was prominent in his mind. 

"Mulder!" she said again, sharply. "Are you okay? Where are you? Did you find something?" 

"I don't remember—I don't.. don't know where I am." Too late, he thought that he probably shouldn't have been so forthright; she'd think he was insane. Not that the rest of the Bureau didn't think that already, though. The sun was starting to come up, and it brought him some clarity. "I'm okay," he added hastily. 

Scully must have thought he was scared, because she sounded both soothing and terrified. "Okay, Mulder. You're okay. Look around—where are you? Help—" A noise in the background interrupted her—a man's voice, from the sound of it—and she sounded faraway as she muttered something to him and then returned to Mulder. Now she was more guarded. "So what are you doing?" 

Feeling more lucid, Mulder scanned his surroundings. "I'm in the car, Scully, on the highway in.. just a sec." There were billboards on both sides of the road and he eventually spotted one which spelled out his location. "I'm just outside of Atlanta." 

"God, Mulder," Scully replied in her long-suffering maltreated partner voice, a mask over her worry. "Officer Wells and I have been wondering if you totaled the squad car." Officer Wells—who the hell was that? Oh, the man who wouldn't let them touch the body. "Do you need me to fly up there?" It was phrased as an innocuous question, but it was obvious that she wanted to retrieve him and figure out what was wrong. 

"That's not necessary," he said, rushing to assure her. The last thing he needed was her hauling him off to some FBI counselor for a round of idiotic psychobabble when he had a degree himself and was perfectly capable of managing. "Besides, the car has to be returned to the precinct. I'll drive straight back—Atlanta to Tampa—it should only take eight hours. They'll probably be less than pleased with me for putting this kind of mileage on the car, but the Bureau is paying for gas, after all. I'll talk to you when I get there." He awaited her reply with bated breath. 

"Okay," she agreed, conceding his victory, at least for now. "Meet me at the police station. You remember where it is?" 

"I remember everything," he reminded her, trying to sound appropriately wry but not quite succeeding. 

"I'll see you there. But call me if you have any trouble, Mulder. Okay?" 

_little slut_

"I will, Scully," he promised as he hung up and tried to find an exit, hoping he had complete control over himself this time. 

_you'll do anything i tell you to, pretty boy, won't you_

The sun was brighter now and he could see the ghost of his reflection in the windshield, haggard and ill. His ass was killing him and his wrists throbbed endlessly, making it hard to steer. 

_if you didn't want me, why'd you come up here_

He couldn't reach the briefcase with the Tylenol in it unless he stopped the car. Fuck. 

_you know you want it baby_

Mulder sped up as he looked for a rest stop. 

_just dying to have my cock up your ass, just dying_

He just sped up, period. 

* * *

**1:15 PM, February 19th, 1995  
Tampa Bay Police Station**

"It looks like he's back, Agent Scully," someone called out. 

Scully peered out the window in an attempt to catch a glimpse of him and, failing that, turned to watch the door. She felt fuzzy and covered with grit, having overslept after a return to the inn for what was supposed to have been a short nap; there hadn't been time for a shower. At least she had a clean suit, though she'd spilled coffee on the edge of the sleeve. Thank God it was a dark jacket and the stain wasn't visible unless you were looking for it. 

The door swung open with a clang of chimes. Chimes in a police station, she thought to herself. In the police station of a reasonably large city, no less. Didn't they have any regulations? 

"Scully," said Mulder by way of greeting, catching her gaze and holding it instead of avoiding her, as she'd speculated he might do. He looked absolutely horrible but, oddly enough, his walk was steady and unerring. The same dark circles ringed his eyes, glassy with exhaustion, and the rumpled sleeves were again pulled low, almost concealing his hands themselves. The split lip had closed up and would heal smoothly, but he was twice as pale as he had been the previous day, making the scratch on his forehead stand out in stark relief. His hair was matted and she thought for the first time, as she scrutinized, that his suit hung a bit looser than usual. True, he tended to neglect his nutritional needs, and he had just recovered from the ordeal in Alaska, but he should have looked healthier. It just seemed wrong to her. 

"Hey, Mulder." A hollow, raw feeling, worry and fear, had lodged itself in the pit of her stomach when she'd first heard his shaky voice over the phone line, and she'd thought it would vanish when she saw that he was okay, but instead it only intensified. He was the one who had run off, so why did she feel like she was coming unglued? Yesterday morning she'd barely thought of him, except in mild exasperation, and now she was well-nigh consumed by the need to keep him safe. Something was definitely wrong with the both of them. 

The police officers had gathered around Mulder in something of a loose circle as he entered their headquarters, and now they spread apart to reveal the local detective who had first taken the case. He'd been off duty the night before and unreachable, but when Scully had arrived at the station this morning she'd gotten an earful about how he was perfectly able to profile the case himself and didn't require the help of some kooky feebie (Mulder's reputation preceded him, as usual). 

She watched Mulder apprehensively; she'd thought she would get a chance to talk to him alone before the detective accosted him, but the illustrious Detective Peterson was fast approaching, his lip curling in distaste. "Agent Mulder, I presume?" 

Mulder shifted his weight and extended a hand which the other man ignored, looking as if he was going to plow right through Mulder on his way to the unsub. "You presume correctly, Detective..?" When he realized that the detective wasn't going to shake his hand, he withdrew it and raised a questioning eyebrow, neither hostile nor particularly friendly. 

"Peterson," the detective replied with a fair imitation of a smirk, his tone gruff. There was a tense pause in which both men seemed unsure of what to say, Mulder swaying slightly as if he were about to keel over and Peterson looking as if he couldn't decide whether to throttle Mulder or make him buy a new squad car. "So what did your lead turn up? There wasn't any evidence that the unsub had ever been in Atlanta.." She'd told everyone that her partner had run off to chase a promising new lead, but she hadn't been able to get him on the phone when others weren't listening so that she could tell him what he'd been doing. 

Both eyebrows shot up now and Mulder blinked, startled, but he recovered himself quickly and said, "If you'll find me some paper, I'll clear everything up, Detective." He'd smoothed his surprise over with a thin veneer of respect for Peterson, though Scully wasn't sure if the man deserved it. Glad that he hadn't fumbled, she tried to pat his shoulder in her usual fashion as Peterson led them back to a suitable desk. To her consternation, he shied away and gave her his glazed, I'm-busy-profiling look. 

So Scully pulled up a chair, halfway across the room, and rummaged for something to read while he cleared the desk. Some officer had given him a yellow notepad and a pen, blue ink, and she watched wonderingly as he scribbled. She's always found it amazing that he could do that without crossing anything out; when she wrote her reports she was forever backspacing, deleting, making things concise and logical. Perhaps it was just another aspect of his genius; he seemed to work things out in his mind before ever putting them on paper. Once, he'd told her that he could envision pages in his mind, the words and placing, and then he'd just reconstruct it. When she tried to do that, everything looked blurry. 

There were copies of the autopsy reports on what she supposed was Detective Peterson's desk, and since the man had stalked off toward the restroom, grumbling, she simply snatched them up and began to peruse the file on the first victim. Soon she was receiving odd, darting glances from the officers who milled around the station. She conquered the impulse to tell them off, as she always did, but still applied a fresh coat of her icy mask. 

When would people understand that she was just as competent an FBI agent as the next man? 

Her scalp was itching, still dirty from the hike through the woods to get to the body, and the make-up she'd hurriedly applied upon waking felt heavy and caked on her cheeks. Stubbornly she continued to read, but after a few minutes, relented and fled to splash some water on her face. A couple of officers were holed up in a corner, whispering as she passed them, and she caught a few words about herself. Unsurprisingly, it seemed to be a running commentary on her sexual prowess and what would happen if someone ever got her to unbutton her suit. 

When she got back, Mulder was standing like a zombie, notepad in hand and writing utensil abandoned somewhere. He yawned even as she approached him. "Mulder—the profile?" 

He waved the yellow paper at her, filled with his unruly scrawl. "It's done, but I don't see Peterson here." Sleep lingered in his voice, threatening to steal him away, and he scrubbed at his eyes uselessly. The sleeve on his left arm started to slip and she glimpsed something dark, bruised, but he yanked it back with such sudden ferocity that she thought better of questioning him. 

Just then, Peterson stepped into the doorway. His ever-present sneer receded somewhat upon acquiring the profile, which he began to skim immediately. There was little in the way of conversation, as drained as Mulder was, and after a minute, the detective flashed him a strange glower. "I didn't consider this," he said, eyes narrowed into slits. "We'll check the records. Don't go anywhere." And with that he stomped out of the room, papers swishing off of the desks with the stirred up breeze. 

She'd been standing on the sidelines, watching Peterson, and when she looked up at Mulder he was staring off into space. He'd changed in a way that she was at a loss to define, so different from the Mulder in the hospital bed that she wouldn't have recognized him if not for the bloodshot gaze. "Mulder," she prodded, gently. 

For a long moment, she thought he was asleep on his feet, but then he seemed to struggle back into reality. "Scully," he said, abruptly anchored in grimness, "we're going back to D.C." 

Floored, she just goggled at him, though she doubted anyone else could see her bewilderment. It was the last thing she'd been expecting to hear. What she wanted to hear, it certainly was, but when had Mulder ever done what she suggested? She cleared her throat and composed her words. "Mulder, we have to stay until the case is resolved. You don't know that they'll find a single person who matches your profile. Besides," she lowered her voice, "I want an explanation for your actions unless you want me to be tempted to report you for psychiatric evaluation." 

"We're going back to Washington," he repeated, his entire expression darkening a shade. 

Scully crossed her arms and debated before turning toward the door. "Come with me," she ordered, and he followed meekly, shoulders slumped. They walked out of the building and she stopped, finally, on the side of it. There was a shoe shop next to them, but no one was close enough to overhear. "Mulder, what is going on with you?" 

"I'm fine, Scully," was his automatic response. He alternated between staring at the pebbles on the ground and focusing on the wall. "I know that the profile is correct. With the specifics I've provided, there can't be more than two or three people who will match it. They'll find the unsub without any further assistance and Detective Peterson can claim the victory. They've got over a day to apprehend whoever it may be before Elsie Gardner is killed." 

Funny; she'd almost forgotten about the Senator's missing daughter, having missed the frequent calls to the station from his office, demanding to know what they'd found. Peterson had been whining about them, initially, but she'd tuned him out. "How does your profile differ from theirs?" 

"The original profile is accurate—essentially," he said, blearily lethargic. Only his mouth was moving. "The unsub did go to the Persian Gulf, with a less than honorable discharge. Average intelligence, a history of abuse. The same applies to the torrid love affair and the subsequent desire to inflict pain upon anyone who resembled the unsub's former lover. I suspect that the lover was the first victim, and with each kill, the unsub fell further and further into a psychotic state. Even without my profile, the unsub would have grown careless and gotten caught within the next two murders." 

"So," she pressed, "what's the difference?" 

"The unsub is female." 

"Oh." Her mind worked rapidly, processing the information. "A lesbian?" At his nod, she wanted to go back into the building and kick Peterson. "That's one of the first things you're warned about when you go into profiling, right? Not assuming that the unsub is male just because the majority of serial killers are men?" 

He nodded again. "They could've caught her a long time ago if they had investigated the possibility of her rather than him." 

She tried to look into his eyes, but he tilted his head. He was trying to distract her—she knew that—but this had something to do with the case, too. "How did you know?" 

Mulder shrugged noncommittally, and there was nothing in his expression to tell her what he was thinking. "It's hard to explain, Scully. You know that." 

"Yeah," she conceded. "Mulder—what happened?" She took a step forward—they'd been standing a few feet apart—and invaded his personal space. He didn't seem to care, normally, but now his eyes flickered nervously. 

"Nothing," he said, scuffing at the rocky ground with his shoes. "Just let it go, Scully." 

"You know I can't do that, Mulder." She wanted to touch him but, remembering how he'd reacted the last time, took pause. 

"Why not?" His tone was defensive, almost betrayed. 

"Mulder—" she felt exasperated again and it colored her voice into something that she didn't want it to be. Sighing, she tried again, more softly, an entreaty. "Mulder, when you called me this morning, you told me that you didn't know where you were. You said that you didn't remember." 

Something took shape in his eyes, wide and chilling. He looked positively terrified, his posture stiffening, arms rooted at his sides, but his voice had the same casual, weary monotony. "I'd just woken up, Scully. I was groggy and disoriented." 

"You fell asleep at the wheel," she asserted, raising both of her eyebrows, though she knew it wasn't true. It was a serious offense for an agent. 

"No—I wasn't at the wheel. I was—" 

Even as she grew more concerned, she knew that her mask was drawing in, tight and closed. "God, Mulder, don't lie to me. I could hear the engine." There was a layer of stubble on his chin, for of course he hadn't had time to shave, and she reached up to cup his jaw and force him to look her in the eye. 

Violently, almost as if she'd tried to hit him, he jerked away from her and stumbled out of arm's length. "Don't touch me," he hissed under his breath, raising his hands warningly. 

All she could do was stare at him in shock. 

* * *

**2:03 PM, February 19th, 1995  
Tampa Bay Police Station**

_don'ttouchme don't don't please don't hurt me_

She was looking at him in a new light, hurt and wonder in her eyes, which had deepened. Dark blue, like the ocean. He wanted more than anything to get away from her, to run to a deserted room somewhere and curl up in a ball until it all went away. But she'd make good on her threat about an evaluation; she'd say it was for his own good, the same way he'd tried to protect her when she'd returned to work after her abduction. 

_look at those sweet lips foxy they were made for my dick_

Shaking, he drew a breath, his ribs aching painfully, and tried to calm himself as well as his partner. Realizing that his hands were braced in front of his face, he lowered them and hoped that she hadn't seen his wrists. She'd caught a glimpse earlier, he thought, but since then she hadn't mentioned it and perhaps he'd mistaken the curious look in her eye. "Sorry," he began, and thankfully his voice cooperated with him, "I'm just tired, Scully, and still a bit sore from my running accident." 

_you're a fucking whore and you give me a half-cocked blowjob foxy—what the hell is that_

She straightened, studying him cautiously like she'd eye a tiger who'd gotten loose from the zoo. "Okay, Mulder." 

_fucking pretty boy with a fucking leather jacket_

Looking at her, he could see the carrot-orange of her hair and was struck by how easily it could be mingled with blood. And as soon as he could conceive of the idea, it was pooling around her, dripping from slashes on her arms, trickling in dark rivulets from her crushed nose. She was dead, a skeleton, bones and shiny white teeth with rotting bits of flesh, a hole in her cracked skull. 

Then, suddenly, he was looking at himself through her eyes, and it was he who had the slashes. As he watched his clothes were slowly stripped off, revealing the thin lines of rib, crushed, sticking out at cruelly awkward angles. Staring, eyes riveted, and the rich crimson dried and congealed, transforming itself into a sticky whiteness that spurted from above, somewhere he couldn't see, to cover his entire body. Smashing his larynx, seeping in through the cracks in his lips, filling his lungs, and he couldn't breathe, choking and gasping for the blocked air. 

_you wanted this foxy boy, wanted me to come inside you_

Unwittingly he'd hunched over, clutching at his chest as he coughed and hacked, and before he knew what was happening the sunflower seeds and apple danish he'd had for breakfast were smiling at him from the ground. He was kneeling, gulping oxygen as if he'd never had any in his life. 

When he could draw breath in a normal fashion, he glanced up only to find Scully at his side, hands twitching in her obvious need to touch him. "Mulder, you look feverish." 

_who has the gun boy_

While he probably did look flushed, that wasn't the half of it, and he wasn't about to talk to her. No way in hell. "It's just the danish," he tried to say, but his voice was scratchy and jagged, and it came out as more of a whisper. Stomach acid was thick on his tongue, caustic and bitter. "Went down the wrong way." 

_got gun, will shoot, pretty boy—do the right thing_

"Mulder," she insisted, brushing her hair back with one hand while the other snaked out to feel his forehead, "you might have a temperature. I have to check—" 

_nononono i'm not this way not this way swear_

Her hand, outstretched, reminded him of a lily, pale and unsullied. Couldn't let her feel the dirt that clung to his skin, that acrid, salty stench that attached itself to him no matter how many times he showered. So he ducked to the side, scrambling to his feet in rapid motion, the world spinning around him but not yet collapsing in on itself. 

_fucking homophobic queer_

"I'm fine, Scully," he said, quiet and controlled. "Look, this is what we're going to do. I'm going inside—I need to wash up and see if they've identified the unsub. Then we're going to catch the first plane back to D.C. to write our respective reports for Skinner, while the local Tampa P.D. apprehends the unsub." 

_not that way_

Eyes wide as saucers, and she was burning holes in his skull with that gaze. "You don't care if they catch the unsub or not." 

_fucking hard on and you say you're not queer foxy_

"I'm exhausted. They're perfectly capable." Indeed he was; weariness was settling in his bones even as he spoke, his eyelids falling drowsily, but he snapped them back open and observed her. 

Her mouth, shiny and red-lipsticked and perfect, was a thin, pursed line. No breeze and the humidity hung in the air, ominous, but she was all shine and glitter, little diamond eyes and ruby lips. Well-coiffed serenity, smoothly stark, and she wore so much concealer that he couldn't even see the mole above her lip unless he interrupted her during a shower. She wouldn't let him see anything important, but he had to show her everything that mattered. He wanted to slap her. He wanted her to get the fuck away from him and leave him alone. 

Instead she stared at him, fire and ice. "I want to talk about this. You have to talk to me about this, Mulder." 

_cocksucking pretty boy is what you are_

Fucking cold bitch, prying and poking and invading him when she had no right, and he wanted to slap her, to break the evenness of her face with the long, red streak his hand would make. 

_don't touch me_

Just as suddenly as it had washed over him, the rage curdled, soured, and he was empty. Overcome by the urge to yawn, he did so, several times, and when he could bring himself to look at her, she was practically ogling him. "Tomorrow," he rasped, lying through his teeth. 

_sister scully so sorrysorrysorry help me please_

He thought she was glaring at him, but she was wrapped up so tightly now that there was no way to tell. "You have to, Mulder," she said, sharp and incisive. "Tomorrow." 

Wondering at the tender side of her that he'd seen, once in a blue moon—wondering if he'd ever see it again—he cleared his throat, trying to get rid of the taste of bile that had welled up inside it. And he answered, "Okay," but there was really nothing to say, nothing for him to talk about tomorrow. 

_wordy bastard_

He could tell her that he was sore all over. 

_you won't talk so much once i get a piece of your ass_

He could tell her why he was sore all over. 

_too bad you're spoiled, pretty boy_

He could tell her about Krycek, about the -real- Krycek, and then she'd know that he'd really wanted it. 

_wouldn't go so hard on you if you were a virgin_

When he closed his eyes the images were imprinted onto the lids; Krycek and his goofy smile, hair slicked back, long lashes resting, fluttering against the high cheekbones, long limbs encased in the cheap suit. Krycek in his leather jacket, hair wild, the eyes that he said were green smoldering into his; the strong, unrelenting mouth. Denim and Krycek, molded around the curve of his ass, the casual winks and the flash of tickets. Mulder and Krycek in the back of the movie theater making out like rebellious teenagers, armrests poking uncomfortably; nipping at the hollow of Krycek's shoulder, pressed together like peas in a pod. Krycek divested of his clothes, silhouetted by lamplight in the window. Mulder and Krycek in the seldom-used bed, writhing, twisting, mangling the sheets. Krycek, gone in the early morning hours. 

_a bit of teeth now—i court danger_

Scully, commenting on Krycek's initial squeamishness. 

_bite too hard and i'll blow your head off pretty boy_

Mulder, wanting to believe. 

_a dick is a terribly thing to lose, but so is a head, isn't it, foxy boy_

Krycek, remnants of a Morley in his ashtray. 

_who needs fucking lube when you have such a slick ass_

Krycek, vanished into thin air. 

_loosen up_

There wasn't anything to say to her, really. 

_dirty_

Mulder, an automaton, followed Scully into the police station and behaved like a robotic angel. 

To be continued. 

* * *

Date: February 2000   
Fandom: X-Files   
Contact: [email removed], feedback givers adored.   
Spoilers: anything up to End Game   
Rating: NC-17 for violence, naughty language, rape   
Class: Story/Angst   
Keywords: Mulder angst, rape, slash, Mulder/Scully friendship. Brief Mulder/Krycek.   
Summary: A brutalized Mulder tries to conceal his dirty laundry, but a case that strikes an unwelcome chord in him makes the job difficult. It's up to Scully to wheedle the truth out of him—but can she deal with it? Can he ever go back to work without having a mental breakdown?   
Warnings: I'll be up front. There is no romance here, except in little flashbacks, and that part is Mulder/Krycek. No, Krycek is not the rapist. I'd never do that to my precious ratbaby. MSR is nonexistent—shippers, flee now or forever hold your peace. Yes, there is tons of angst. If you want a happy, stable Mulder, you're not going to get him. This Mulder is traumatized, and he suffers from several mental illnesses as a result of his rape and the events of his childhood. In typical Mulder style, he's not going to want to be a good boy and go get healed. This Scully is a nice, relatively sane Scully, and she's not an evil bitch from hell. There's going to be a lot of bonding in here—platonic bonding, of course. If you hate Scully, this is not going to please you. If you think relationships between two men are horrible and evil, this is going to disgust you. If you think that I'm condeming homosexuality because I've written a story about one man raping another, don't read this, even though I'm not—I'm not straight, after all. I can't tell you to enjoy this, because if you did you'd be one sick fuck.. but maybe you'll identify with it, or learn something about how nasty criminals are. Mhmm. If I have any writing skill whatsoever, that is..   
Disclaimer: Duh—I don't own the X-Files, 1013 and Chris Carter and Fox and the Consortium do, obviously. They could prosecute me if they gave a damn, but I haven't anything of value for them to acquire. Cept my dog. And I love my dog, so please be nice.   
NO X-FILES CHARACTERS WERE KILLED IN THE WRITING OF THIS FANFIC. Send appropriate replies of gratitude.   
Note: Titles taken from "Barrel of a Gun" by Depeche Mode. I won't include the entire set of lyrics until the very end of the series, because this isn't songfic.   
---


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